


you wanna prove you're the better man

by hilaryfaye



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Choking, Collars, Enthusiastic Consent, Loud Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: The worst part is that it isn't as surprising as it should be. If one manages to set aside four and a half million years of war then it becomes embarrassingly apparent that he has a type.





	

The worst part of it, really, is that he can’t say it’s entirely surprising. Oh, certainly, there’s the surface level shock of it all— _Rodimus_ of all people—but if one manages to set aside four and a half million years of war (difficult as that may be) then, he supposes, it becomes embarrassingly apparent that he has a _type._ The small, loud, massively overconfident, and irritating type (which is about as much as Rodimus can be said to have in common with Starscream).

_Rodimus._ It’s embarrassing enough knowing that he changed his name to be more like Optimus’, the ‘bot thinks he wants to be a prime. Megatron supposes that someone might make a remark about his tendency toward _primes_ as well, if they were both sufficiently unafraid of him and aware of the current situation he finds himself in, which—thankfully—no one is.

It might not be so bad if he were only amused by the obnoxious brat who calls himself ‘co-captain’ and sulks at the slightest bruise to his ego. Even begrudging fondness would be better than—whatever this is.

If he has any excuse for this, it’s that on the grand scale of mistakes he has made, an ill-advised affair is probably the least of them.

He’s not certain that makes him feel any better.

The first time had been easy enough to dismiss. A power struggle that wasn’t supposed to look like a power struggle, resentment turned something else, that was a dynamic he understood. If the first time had turned into a second and a third, and he found he enjoyed the particularly vocal way in which Rodimus responded to being well and thoroughly fragged, well, there was no harm in that.

Until three times becomes four, five, and eventually it becomes a routine. Certainly, he spends enough time alone, and Rodimus knows where to find him. No one else would bother to seek him out like this.

The responsible part of his brain says that there was a point where he should have put a stop to this, but he can’t say exactly when that was. The threshold of “acceptable” slipped by without his noticing, and now it’s become—something. Something that doesn’t have a name because if either of them gives it a name, then it has meaning.

Then it becomes something he has to make sense of.

“You’re doing it again.” Rodimus is much closer to his face than Megatron remembers him being, leaning in like he expects something. His hands are on Megatron’s thighs, and that’s another thing about whatever these visits are, the casualness that has grown between them in their moments alone.

“Doing what?”

“Making that face. The face you make when you’re thinking too much.” Rodimus is looking at him with a bizarre amount of interest, optics flitting over his face, meeting his own. He still doesn’t know why Rodimus is so close or when he got there. “What’s up?”

Even the way he speaks is irritating.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do. You’re just being difficult because you think I’m stupid.” He’s pouting now, and he’s always more difficult to deal with when he does that.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” Aggravating, certainly, and upon occasion deliberately obtuse, but Rodimus isn’t stupid. He’s watched the way Rodimus creates loopholes and distractions to get what he wants too many times to ever really believe that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, at least on some level. He just also happens to be a brash loudmouth who wants everyone to look at him and see a hero.

He wants to be adored.

Megatron is fairly certain that Rodimus’ regular visits are the only thing that his ‘co-captain’ has ever managed to be truly discreet about.

“Then what’s going on up here?” Rodimus asks, raising a hand to tap a finger against the side of Megatron’s head. “Because you’re scowling. More than usual, I mean. More than’s just your face.”

He almost smiles at that, but that would only encourage Rodimus. “That’s generally the expression I make when thinking about you.”

“Wow, okay.” Rodimus smiles. “You’re getting better at this ‘humor’ thing.” His hands are still on Megatron’s thighs, creeping upward now because there’s only so much subtlety one can expect from Rodimus. He has a particular smile when they’re behind closed doors, one that Megatron has thought of several names for, but he thinks ‘hungry’ is the one that fits best, as much as it baffles him that that smile would ever be directed at him.  Rodimus baffles him, surprises him in ways that _Rodimus_ shouldn’t be able to surprise him.

He surprises himself quite a bit, these days.

It had all seemed so natural, the first time, slamming him up against the wall and seeing the way Rodimus’ optics had positively sparkled with excitement, an unmistakable tremor running through his frame. It was the first time he had ever seen that hungry smile, the one that asked for all the things Rodimus would never admit to wanting aloud.

Like lifting Rodimus by the throat and throwing him halfway across the room. Rodimus isn’t the first bot he’s done that to, but this is different, especially in the way that Rodimus can’t help but laugh a little as he tries to get back up, only to have Megatron drag him back by a leg, pick him up and slam him down on the berth, a knee pressed up between Rodimus’ legs, bearing his weight down on the smaller bot’s chest, to hold him still. “And what do you think you’re doing?” he growls, knowing he’s close enough for Rodimus to _feel_ the rumble of his vocalizer.

Rodimus wriggles underneath of him, not even trying to hide his grin. “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.” He only ever calls Megatron that behind closed doors, it’s part of the game for him, and Megatron would be lying if he said it didn’t affect him exactly the way Rodimus intended it to.

Megatron puts a hand around Rodimus’ neck, watching the way his optics dance in response. “Insubordination will not be tolerated onboard my ship.”

A shiver runs through Rodimus’ frame, but he sees that spark of annoyance in Rodimus’ face. “It’s not your ship. It’s never been your ship.”

He squeezes. “Who commands this ship, Rodimus?”

Another tremor, and Rodimus’ optics grow hazy, and all he does is groan.

“Answer me.”

“You do—you do, Captain.” Rodimus gasps, straining up against him with an arched back. It’s absurdly easy to get him worked up. There are times, when Megatron’s feeling more patient, that he can keep winding him up, right up ‘til Rodimus is nearly ready to shake himself apart, but right now, all he wants is to hear Rodimus whimper—which is why he reaches for the collar.

Rodimus goes still underneath him, optics wide and lips parted, a hand pressed against Megatron’s chest.

The collar fits snugly around his throat, a little tighter than it needs to be. Rodimus is the most docile he’s ever been as Megatron ties the lead to the head of the berth, with only just a little slack before it draws him up short. Megatron runs a thumb over the strap, admiring the way Rodimus leans against the collar, needing to be closer, whining at the restriction. “Megatron—Captain—please,”

“You are not in a position to negotiate.” He drops his hand, pushing Rodimus down and dragging him down the length of the berth so that he doesn’t have enough slack in the lead to sit up. Rodimus makes an obscene sound, bucking his hips, trying to find the contact he so badly wants.

Megatron pins him down, leaning over Rodimus until he’s a breath away from Rodimus’ face. “Open your panel for me.”

Rodimus huffs, making the face Megatron knows means he’s feeling contrary. “What if I don’t want to?”

Megatron smiles, just a little. “I’ll leave you here for the rest of the night, while I go recharge somewhere else.”

His panel slips open, without any more protest. Rodimus shifts impatiently, trying to get enough slack to move, but Megatron holds him where he is, and all Rodimus can do is give in, knowing that he’s vulnerable and exposed and there’s very little Megatron couldn’t do to him at that moment.

It still gives him pause, how readily Rodimus yields to this, how badly he can tell that Rodimus wants this, needs it. Primus, but he does enjoy the sight of Rodimus stretched out like that on the berth.

“Megatron, please,” Rodimus pants.

Megatron leans over him again, careful not to touch Rodimus’ exposed valve. “Please, what?” The quiver that goes through Rodimus is positively obscene, his thighs tensing against Megatron’s.

Rodimus’ hands settle on Megatron’s chest plate, desperately seeking out contact. “Please, I need you, need you inside me, please.” His fingers scrape over the Autobot badge on Megatron’s chest, and Rodimus pauses, going back over it with a softer touch, almost distracted by its presence.

Megatron pulls away, and Rodimus reaches for him for a moment, before his hands drop to his sides. “Your needs are of no concern to me.” He pulls Rodimus’ legs apart, spreading him open. Rodimus’ valve is dripping lubricant, his legs nearly trembling. Megatron lowers his head, and has the satisfaction of seeing Rodimus’ optics widen as he brings his mouth to Rodimus’ valve.

Rodimus bucks at the contact, choking himself with the collar before his head slams back down on the berth. He starts babbling almost immediately, a stream of curses and moans and pleading, his hands on Megatron’s head, pulling him closer.

Megatron runs his tongue around Rodimus’ node, and is rewarded with a spasm running through Rodimus’ entire frame. He lets Rodimus sling his legs over Megatron’s shoulders, twisting and pulling against the collar. “Oh—Primus—Megatron, that’s so good, so good, don’t stop, please—”

Megatron shifts, circling a finger around the opening of Rodimus’ valve. He presses two fingers inside and Rodimus makes a sound that’s nearly a wail, digging his fingers into Megatron’s helm.

Megatron knows Rodimus well enough now to know when he’s close to overloading, and just when Rodimus is on the brink, he pulls away.

The way Rodimus cries out sends a pulse through Megatron’s frame, as does the way Rodimus reaches for him, shamelessly pleading to be allowed to overload, to be fragged until his limbs give out.

Megatron waits, standing next to the berth and running a thumb across Rodimus’ bottom lip. Rodimus greedily sucks at his thumb, trying to get a reaction out of him, though perhaps not expecting Megatron to push the thumb in deeper, gagging him.

He jerks Rodimus back by the collar, hauling him halfway up the berth. “What do you want?”

Rodimus clings to Megatron’s chest, trying to get closer to him. “Want you, want you so bad, Primus, Megatron—”

Megatron flips Rodimus over, chest on the berth and legs dangling to the floor, just a little too high for Rodimus to really get his feet under him. Rodimus groans, trying to press back against Megatron without slipping off the berth.

Megatron releases his spike and pulls Rodimus back by the hips, shoving inside his valve with no more ceremony than that. Rodimus well and truly wails now, clutching the berth to support himself as Megatron frags him, the collar occasionally choking off his cries as it crushes his vocalizer. His voice comes back hoarse, incoherent, but the meaning is clear enough.

Megatron feels Rodimus getting close to overload again, and reluctantly he steps back, leaving Rodimus dangling, dripping lubricant, and—having found his voice again—swearing. It starts out as a stream of what seems to be every combination of foul words Rodimus can think of, but eventually he finds his focus, hurling insults at Megatron himself.

“Carefully, Rodimus,” Megatron murmurs, tracing his fingers up the back of Rodimus’ trembling thigh. “Or I may just leave you here.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rodimus spits, but there’s a hesitation in his voice that suggests he believes Megatron just might. “I’m—I’m—”

“You’re what, Rodimus?” Megatron lays a hand on the small of Rodimus’ back, well away from any place he wants to be touched, but just near enough to keep his mind on it.

“I was captain before you,” Rodimus says, because this is what it always comes back to, that Rodimus is still smarting from being displaced—replaced—by him. Lately there hasn’t been as much venom in it, but Rodimus still isn’t ready to let Megatron forget that he’s the interloper, that this ship still belongs first and foremost to Rodimus.

What Rodimus consistently forgets is that Megatron is not new at this.

He pulls Rodimus’ head back, his other hand tracing the curve of his throat. “You were,” Megatron agrees, “it must sting, being demoted in favor of _me—_ but be honest with me, Rodimus,” his lips are almost on Rodimus’ audio receptors, his voice so low that Rodimus has to stay quiet to hear him, “you’d like nothing better than for me to lay you low, reduce you to a quivering scrap heap with my spike.”

Rodimus is shaking so badly he can barely speak.

Megatron draws lazy circles in the small of Rodimus’ back. “Answer me, Rodimus.”

Rodimus lets out a pitiful whimper and nods, the last of his resolve slipping away. “Please,” he begs, almost sobbing with need.

Megatron flips him onto his back, pulling his hips up with Rodimus’ legs over his arms, and thrusting once more into Rodimus’ valve, trying not look too pleased at his helpless yelp. Turned upward, he can see Rodimus’ face, now, optics open and focused on Megatron’s face. He grasps at Megatron’s hands on his hips, as if there were any risk of his letting go.

Megatron moves Rodimus’ legs up to his shoulders, reaching one hand to the far side of the berth and bending Rodimus nearly in half beneath him. There’s nothing for him to look at now except Rodimus’ face, and the bright blue glow of his optics. He can feel Rodimus tensing, his overload dangerously close, and then Rodimus does something that nearly stops him where he stands.

He pulls Megatron’s head down, and kisses him. He stays there through Megatron’s initial surprise, and when Megatron puts his hand on the back of Rodimus’ neck, kissing him back, and they’re still like that when Rodimus finally overloads, breaking away to throw his head back, shouting, riding it out with his fingers interlaced with Megatron’s. (When did he take his hand?)

The sight of him is enough to push Megatron to overload, shuddering over Rodimus, transfluid leaking onto the berth. For a moment there’s nothing he can do but steady himself, and Rodimus’ optics are on him again, looking for something.

Megatron gazes back at him for a moment, the feeling of that kiss still on his lips. He turns his head to look at their hands, fingers still interlocked. Rodimus follows his gaze and seems to notice for the first time, pulling his hand away a little too quickly.

Megatron lets him go, moving off of Rodimus and removing the collar, which he drops to the side. Rodimus is too exhausted to move, and Megatron isn’t in a much better way, so for a while he only sits next to Rodimus, neither of them speaking.  

Rodimus pulls himself up, panel sliding shut. He won’t look at Megatron now, and Megatron feels guilty about something, but he doesn’t know what. It’s hard to know exactly what he did wrong when he’s not sure there’s something he could have done right.

Because this—whatever this is—wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place. It’s not supposed to be happening now.

Rodimus frequently does things without giving them much thought, but with the way he’s being quiet now, Megatron gets the sense this wasn’t one of those times, which only makes it worse.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, or if saying anything would make it better.

So instead of saying anything, he reaches for Rodimus’ hand. Rodimus startles, looks at him like he’s seeing Megatron for the first time. He looks down at their hands, and—hesitant—he lets Megatron’s fingers slide through his, and with a sigh he sags against Megatron’s arm, head on his shoulder, and Megatron does his best to silence the alarms ringing in his head.

After everything he’s lived through, it’s Rodimus’ head on his shoulder that shakes him to his spark.

He thinks he’s made a mistake, that it isn’t fair to Rodimus to let this go on. It’s irresponsible, it can only end messily, and the last thing either of them needs is for something like that to happen.

“You’re doing it again.”

Megatron glances down at him. “You’re not even looking at me.”

“Don’t have to,” Rodimus replies. “I can hear it.”

He doesn’t want to ask, but he thinks he has to. “Why come to me? Out of everyone on this ship—”

Rodimus laughs outright at that, and there’s a bitter tinge to it that Megatron hasn’t heard before. “There’s not many people left on this ship who like me, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“There must be someone—”

“If you’re about to tell me how this is some kind of mistake and you have to end it to preserve your own sense of morality or guilt or whatever, don’t.” Rodimus squeezes his hand. “Thought you said you didn’t think I was stupid.”

He wants to pull away, but he makes himself stay put, makes himself let Rodimus stay right where he is.

“You aren’t,” Megatron murmurs. “I know you aren’t.”


End file.
